Rendezvous
by captain-tots
Summary: No one stays dead for long. Leon should have known as much. AdaxLeon; Drabble; Pre-RE 4.


Rendezvous 

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I'm alive! I promise. I've been suffering from massive writers block with Faxing Berlin, so I finished up this drabble to remind myself I can still write. This story started as a self-imposed exercise into the use of imagery. Let me know how I did.

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><p><em>She wears my love like a see-through dress. <em>

_Her lips say one thing, her movements something else. _

_Love, like the sweetest flower; love, dying every hour. _

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><p>She smells like the sweetest perfume and smiles like the world is all her game.<p>

The coffee shop is crowded and his elbow knocks against her in a bid for attention. He thought that a corpse would try to be a little more subtle, but in her second life she is radiant and bold. No shame; no hiding. Her red dress is short and flirty, and her lips are sticky with gloss. Leon sees the other patrons eying her and he feels jealousy welling up in the pit of his stomach.

It's irrational, he knows, because Ada Wong is not his to defend anymore. In fact up, until a few hours ago, he thought that Ada Wong was dead.

She doesn't look at him when he knocks his elbow into her side, but she knows he's there. The expression on her face is indefinable: narrowed eyes, pursed lips. He hopes that what she feels right now is guilt, because he's spent the past year drowning in it. He's seen her dead body bent at a hundred different angles, watched the blood gushing into red pools, felt the taste of her lips on his just as she let out her last breath.

She was dead, and it was his fault.

Except that she _isn't_ dead.

No one stays dead for long. Leon should have known as much.

"Ada..." he hisses at her, careful to keep his voice low. Certainly she hears him—her shoulders arch and ears perk—but she once again chooses to ignore him.

Her back is to him, standing at the pastry case, appearing to be ruminating on the calorie count of a scone. He takes a second to collect his thoughts, hesitates to walk up to her, and loses his chance. There's a crowd building around her now. It's midday, and the working world has no patience for a sad eyed agent and his would-be corpse bride. There are mocha's to be ordered, and muffins to be ate, and deals to be secured.

He pushes through the swarm of people around the counter, ignoring the muttered protests of, "hey," and "watch it!"

"Ada," he speaks clearly now, this name he has not dared utter loud enough to be heard, not since he last screamed it to God and anyone else who may have heard.

She turns to face him.

"Leon."

What is that look?

He wants to pull her into an embrace.

He wants to slap her across her expressionless face.

He wants to ask her if she still loves him; he wants to ask her if she can comprehend how he has suffered in the days since her supposed death; he wants to ask her if she hurts too.

Yet, she will not let him do any of these things, because she turns on her heels and walks out the door.

And so he follows her, again and again.

It was an action that would set the tone for the rest of his life.

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><p>He got the envelope a week ago. There was nothing to separate it from any of the other pieces of mail which came bearing the name of the former occupant of his apartment, besides than the fact that it was addressed to a Mr. Leon S Kennedy and that the return address was Raccoon City. A place which no longer existed. The envelope contained nothing more than a photograph, with a phone number written on the back. The subject of the photograph, however, was none other than Ada Wong herself, holding a newspaper dated June 2004.<p>

Was she a dead woman walking? He wondered who had chosen to torture him in such a way. Plagued by curiosity after seven solid days of staring at the picture, Leon took the image down to a payphone and dialed the number on the back.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end of the phone was terribly familiar. He would know. He heard it every night.

"Ada?" he whispered into the receiver, afraid to speak it too loudly, afraid to call on his personal demons.

For so long, he had managed his guilt by packing her memory away in the recesses of his mind. He was not ready to give himself hope. To allow himself to believe she had lived was to allow himself to absolve himself of his role in her death.

He denied himself forgiveness. He could hide away inside guilt.

"Leon; I want you to meet me at the Starbucks next to the Farragut Metro Station in two hours."

"You're dead," he responded, not even thinking about the statement, just reciting what he's spent the past two years drilling into his head.

Ada Wong is dead; you did not save her.

Ada Wong is dead; she loved you and you let her down.

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><p>He's chasing her down the sidewalk now, across the street, past the tourist studded White House lawn, through the throng of suits. He's always just a few steps behind, whether it's in her pace or her plans. It's summer in the Capitol, and the air is thick and stifling in it's heat. The suits walking down the street are baking inside their personal confinements and despite his sensible dress—cargo shorts and a t-shirt—Leon is sweating like a pig. Hair gel is melting down the back of his neck in sticky streams, but he follows her still, not missing a beat. He can't waste this chance.<p>

He wants to yell after her to slow down, to stop, to face him and end this game, but he still won't let himself believe she's totally real.

He wants to run to her, to grab her by the throat and curse her for torturing him, or to melt into her arms and become overtaken by relief, but he will not do any of these things.

The last thing he needs to do is make a scene and scare her off. He can't lose her again.

Not when she's this close.

He follows her the whole way down the road, past statues and lush fields of grass, a testament to the horticultural skill of his employer. She veers sharply and takes off in a run toward the Washington Monument. What can he do but chase her?

She is achingly beautiful in the midday sun; the light catching on her jet black hair and fracturing into a million perfect little pieces.

She is red and brilliant and full of all the life she's stolen from him.

So they're both running now, like little kids playing a playground game. Her heels kick up dirt behind her, and her dress fills up with air. He's fast, but she's faster, dodging tourists and strollers with a cat-like ease which he does not possess. She's spinning like a ballerina in the middle of her pirouette. It's a bitter, awful, parody of childish courtship that they play at.

She stands still, turns around and surveys their surroundings, before throwing herself down on a vacant park bench. He makes it there a few seconds after her, panting with heat and anxiety.

Perhaps they are cursed to dance this dance forever.

"Ada... what's going on?"

"No one is following us. Sit down." She pats the seat next to her.

He sits next to her, but doesn't know what to do next. There's no clear social etiquette on how to treat a lover back from the grave.

"It's really beautiful out here, isn't it?" She speaks for him, gazing at the reflecting pool that captures the image of the white brick tower. Rolls her head around on her slim, white neck. "Do you get out much, or does the government keep you busy?"

He sputters in shock. Her nonchalance burns.

"What is this all about, Ada? I thought you were dead."

Ada pulls a lock of black hair behind her ear and shrugs. "I hate playing dead." She scoots herself closer to him and leans into his ear. "I wanted you to know the truth," she says, in a near whisper.

"What's the truth?" His voice wavers slightly.

"I thought you deserved to know I was alive."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asks, focusing to keep the sense of longing and betrayal out of his voice.

"I didn't want you to come after me," she explains, before pausing to collect her resolve.

What comes next is so cold and rehearsed, she purses her mouth as if it chills her lips to speak it.

"I wanted you to understand... you and I stand at opposing sides. There may be one day in which we are forced into the role of enemy combatants. And, if that day comes, I will do my best to preserve your life, but we cannot be seen working together."

She stand up and collects herself carefully. Still beautiful and bold.

Ruby red.

So hardened and sharp, she breaks the rays of the sun.

"Ada, stop. Is that all you had to say to me?"

She stops in her tracks and faces him, waiting him to finish.

"Do you still love me?" He spits it out, the pathetic question.

"Someday, we may both wish that I did not."

She walks.

He does not understand her cryptic phrasing, but it stops him from running after her as she leaves.

Somehow, he knows, this is not over.

She will never let him rest.

They will dance for the rest of their days.

Chasing each other around another rendezvous, time and time again.


End file.
